


Tare Out My Heart: A Cyber Romance Novella

by ErisFuriosa



Category: Casablanca (1942), Defy the Stars - Claudia Gray, Incubus (Band)
Genre: Cybernetic organisms, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisFuriosa/pseuds/ErisFuriosa
Summary: Twelve years after the end of the end of the Liberty Wars, the planets on the loop are finally at peace with each other. But they face a new threat: Burton Mansfield's mechs have become self-aware, and they will do anything to ensure their own survival.
Relationships: Human/Mech - Relationship, Tare/Fox
Kudos: 1





	1. Prisoner of War

_Love hurts but sometimes is a good hurt._

_And it feels like I'm alive_

_Love sings when it transcends the bad things_

_Have a heart and try me_

_Because without love I won't survive._

_\--Incubus_

As day breaks, Tare 1982215 arrives at the Nouasseur Complex, on the outskirts of Casablanca, in the Mech Occupied Zone. For the past five days she has been tasked with the treatment and rehabilitation of seven human prisoners held up at the compound. It feels satisfying to be able to obey her primary directive. Since her relocation from Cadiz two years ago, primarily she had been given armament recovery detail: she sweeps through sites of military engagement to recover weapons, blasters, artillery, vehicles, failed detonators, etc. Her programming for meticulous observation and analysis serves her well when combing through various sites, but it doesn’t satisfy the real reason why she was made: to care for the health and well-being of humans.

As she enters the complex, she notices something odd: fewer than normal armed guards, Charlies to thwart rescue and escape attempts. As she checks in, a Charlie stops her.

“You have been reassigned, Tare 1982215. Report the Detail Assignment Office on the third level.” The Tare tilts her head in confusion, but she does not argue. There is no winning an argument with a Charlie, she has learned, not without running the risk of termination.

Built in the mid-20th century, the Nouasseur Complex was originally an air force based which housed military aircraft that would carry nuclear armaments during the Cold War. It was later decommissioned and turned into a civil airport. Now, at the height of the Mech War, it has returned to its original purpose: to carry out military operations, though at a smaller--yet just as crucial--scale. The many winding corridors and secret rooms mostly housed a number of clandestine and intelligence operations.

Tare 1982215 makes her way to the third level, enters the Detail Assignment Office, and she is met by a George, who reviews her new assignment.

“And what of the POWs,” she stops him to inquire.

“They have been relocated to another undisclosed location,” the George responds flatly.

“I assume another Tare has been assigned to look after their medical needs,” she insists.

“That is no longer any of your concern, Tare 1982215. As stated previously, you are to proceed to Berrechid Area 72 and report for armament recovery duty,” the George says coldly and walks away. The Tare nods, reminding herself that there is no winning an argument with a George unless one has the proper documentation.

Sullen, she exits the office, walks down the corridor toward the exit. Replaying the events of the last two weeks. She understands why she has been reassigned. It had not been her ability as a medic, for she was an excellent medical mech. (It is not prideful in stating the obvious.) However, she may have asked too many questions, raised too many concerns, and voiced too many objections. The health, well-being and safety of my patients are paramount, she told herself, and I am prompted to abide by my primary directive regardless of repercussions. 

As she walks towards the exit, she is hailed by Fox 3197803. “And where do you think you're going?” The Fox stops her. The Tare always seems to feel inadequate around the Fox. This morning is no exception. It may have been the Fox's low cut ruby red dress that exposed her exquisitely defined cleavage. Or possibly the way said ruby red dress hugs every curve of her body. Or maybe be it was the way her strawberry blonde hair glistened in doors, in the complex's corridors despite the fluorescent lighting.

“The POWs have been relocated, and I," she looks down to the floor sheepishly, "I have been reassigned.” The Tare takes in the radiance of the Fox, in her bright ruby red sheer dress, and mentally compares her with herself, in dingy mint green medical scrubs. He crosses her right arm, holding her left forearm as though to highlight the divide between them.

“Well that’s unfortunate," pouts the Fox. "Who am I going to eat lunch with now?” 

This catches the Tare off guard, since mechs neither eat lunch nor have lunch breaks. After two years, the Tare still has not come to understand the Fox’s odd sense of humor.

“I am to report to Berrechid Area 72 for armament recovery detail.” She stares at the Fox's dangling earrings that sway whenever she moves slightly.

“Ugh! Grueling back-breaking work. So sorry. Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve also been reassigned to communication surveillance. Imagine being stuck in a tiny office all day, just listening to people talk, talk, talk all day.” She crosses her arms, leans a bit onto her right leg, and rolls her eyes.

Again, the Tare is confused. Why would she feel any delight in hearing that her peer was assigned to work that she deeply dislikes? But she does not say so. She gazes into the Fox’shazel eyes, which have the perfect cat eye outliner.

The Fox perks up suddenly and reaches out her right hand to touch the Tare's shoulder. The Tare looks over to the Fox's touch, attempting to comprehend the reason for her physical contact.

“Well, good luck!” She says, then she turns to begin to walk away, her sheer dress swaying behind her.

“Thank you?” The Tare replies with a slight inflection that signals miscomprehension versus genuine gratefulness. 

But before the Fox is out of sight, she calls out: “Oh,” she stops, turns and says, “Remember, I’m using the car tonight.” The Tare and the Fox are roommates as well, who share a rundown house in the center of Casablanca. Every Thursday and Friday nights she reserved use of their shared vehicle, but has yet to reveal the reason and the purpose of her outings.

How can I forget? the Tare asks herself. After all, she, like all mechs, has an eidetic memory. But instead of pointing that out the obvious, the Tare merely responds, “I won't.” 

Such interactions with the Fox makes the Tare fixate on their apparent differences: The Fox has far more experience interacting with humans, thus is able to seamlessly mimic their language, their mannerisms, and their idiosyncrasies. On the other hand, the Tare’s human interaction experiences with humans is quite limited, so she displays an awkward and spurious semblance of human behavior. In truth, after twelve years, five months, and two days of living among them, she has yet to completely understand them. Neither their desires nor their motivations are intelligible. And unfortunately, these armament recovery assignments do very little to help improve her ability to act, look, and feel more human.

Curious why she feels the need to feel more human. After all, here in the Mech Occupied Zone, she hardly comes into contact with any human beings, less they are prisoners of war, and she is assigned to oversee their medical care. And in that case, her medical mech programming would be of better use. Yet standing there, watching the Fox flutter off, she is acutely aware of her desire to be more human.


	2. The Extraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve years after the end of the Liberty Wars, mechs have become self-aware and battle for their place on Earth. A Stronghold soldier takes part in a prisoner of war extraction mission, but gets more than he bargained for.

Sergeant Frederek Abad allows himself to freak-out a bit as he reviews the operation plan, envisioning the travel terrain and the compound’s schematics. A little pressure is always good, he reminds himself: It forces the mind to focus on the objective at hand and blur out all the inconsequential noise, while pushing the body to its limits.

The mission is simple and straightforward: Rendezvous at Cueta on Earth’s northern region of the African continent; travel the coast through the demilitarized zone to Larache and into mech occupied Rabat and Casablanca; extricate seven prisoners of war from the Nouasseur Complex; and travel the coast back to Larache. 

The extrication of all seven POWs is important, but the survival and return of one in particular is critical. Somehow, a mech intel agent has been captured behind enemy lines and needs to be extricated before mech forces know what he knows. 

How and why a mech intel agent found their way into mech occupied territory is beyond Sergeant Abad. Just like how and why Human Forces are still fighting over uninhabitable expanses of territory on Earth’s Dead Region, which stretches thirty degrees north and thirty degrees south of the equator. With a combination of mega-droughts, mega-sandstorms, and mega-earthquakes, not even the most resolute Strongholder would be caught dead there. Yet there he is, travelling from one dead end to another. 

Unfortunately, once they reach Larache, the plan changes: the POWs have been relocated from the Nouasseur Complex to an old resort on the outskirts of Berrechid. This makes Sergeant Abad, or Freddie as his unit calls him, very nervous. He is always weary of plan modifications. As his nine years of active service experience has taught him, modifications to any operation plan often sows confusion and generally the plan goes south. 

Freddie had enlisted nine years, right when the Mech Wars broke out. He was only fifteen, with no real prospects or future on one of the most unforgiving worlds on the loop. Some Strongholders joined the military for glory, some did it for the money, others for revenge. Freddie joined to escape the inescapable: death from either a mining incident or from severe lung damage. Since then he had taken three tours of duty, two on Earth and one on Stronghold. He is good at his job--killing mechs efficiently and most expeditiously. He is so good, that within six years, he was recruited for a black operations unit. 

Black bag jobs varied in difficulty, length and scope, so Freddie never got bored. Frequently it involved the extrication of detainees or POWs; often it involved the retrieval of vital resources and intel; sometimes it involved clandestine reconnaissance work; but seldom was it boring.

In their last job, his unit was tasked in the apprehension and detention of one of Han Zhi’s most recent love interests, a gorgeous tall redhead, on the planet of Kismet. The redhead was believed to be a saboteur, helping to distribute malware while on a Wartime Relief Entertainment tour. With her help, over 75 fighters never made it to the battle of Rhea in one piece. The redhead was to be apprehended on the third day of the Orchid Festival. Unfortunately, the timetable was sped up, and let’s just say the girl never made it off world alive.

What a waste, Freddie thinks, as his twelve member unit travels through the demilitarized zone into the Mech Occupation Zone in their armored hover vehicle. Outside Rabat, his twelve member unit makes most of the trek on foot, so by the time they reach the Berrechid Compound at 0300 hours, they are near physical exhaustion. But years of black operations training allows Freddie to thrive on exhaustion and pain.

The Berrechid Compound is an old resort, an oasis in the desert. With enough imagination, one could still see its beauty and splendor, as ghosts of guests travel the vestiges of the main hotel building and adjacent bunglows, entertainment and recreational areas, pools and spas.

“Cassini, Freeman, Salvatore: you'll take the south side entrance." Captain Reina Vaquez reviews the plan with the team just outside the compound. "Cho, Saldana, Yelchin: you'll take the east. Abad, Guttenberg, Reynolds, take the west. Hudson, Ripley, and I will keep a look-out, just outside the compound walls. If any of you see anything out of the ordinary, we abort. Understood?" They all nod. "I don't know about you, but I refuse to die on this God forsaken rock." 

Strongholders had a contempt for two things: weakness and Earth. And all of them, save Salvatore, are from Stronghold, the planet that prides itself on making unbreakable dredgers and soldiers out of soft humans. In fact, Salvatore is a late addition to the unit, supplanting Lieutenant Eugene Abbott, who had fallen ill to the stomach flu just two days before they started out. Well it wasn’t so much the stomach flu as it was alcohol poisoning from a night out binge drinking with Freddie.

"Okay then, if there ain't no further questions, boys and girls," Captain Vasquez concludes with a glove-muffled clap, "Let's get to it!"

Freddie and the rest of the unit put on their night vision goggles, switch them on, and begin their descent onto the compound. They all stealthy lurk in silence, only making hand gestures when needed. Freddie grew up in the underground tunnels of Stronghold, so his sense of direction in the dark and his ability to navigate through obscured mazes and passageways is impeccable. It's not boasting if it's true. 

But something feels odd about the Berrechid compound. It's too quiet and too empty. It feels as though the compound is devoid of anyone, human or mech. Freddie attempts to recall the schematics of the compound, but given the short time to memorize the maps and his own uneasiness about the changes, he interposes images of the first compound with those of the latter, making a jumbled mess of it all.

"Abort. Abort." Freddie hears the voice of 2nd lieutenant Lina Cassini. Apparently she and her team have reached the POW holding area and have witnessed the carnage. "Assets have been terminated. I repeat, abort."

Freddie and his team peer at each other through their goggles. It's a trap, the voice in his head echoes, as he re-envisions the compound schematic in his mind and contemplates all possible exit points. Despite his instinct, he decides to follow his team, who merely retrace their steps. Just as they step outside the building into the courtyard into the cover of night, he hears the high pitch sound, emblematic of a Mech remote detonation charge. 

"Shit," he whispers, and he braces himself for the explosion. 

The initial blast merely deafens him and doesn't drop him completely. Freddie falls to the floor onto his left knee, merely losing his balance. It is the second blast that completely jolts his whole body, throwing him across the courtyard about nine meters, rendering him unconscious.


	3. The Scavenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tare medical mech is assigned arms recovery detail after explosives go off in a military compound. She ponders her existence as a cybernetic organism.

The Tare--or Eleanor as she called herself--now dressed in tan military fatigues, leaves the Nouasseur Complex, traveling in a beat up hover utility vehicle or HUV. Despite the severe sandstorm two days ago, the roads, highways, and bridges are still passable. Yet she chooses instead to make most of the trip off-road, through the Moroccan desert. It's a change of scenery, something to occupy her brain from the taxing work that awaits her.

Emme--a fellow yet older Tare model--has suggested she take painting the desert landscape she enjoys traveling so much. There is really nothing to paint, just an infinite desolate stretch of sand. It is not that Eleanor particularly enjoys the Moroccan desert vistas--for the one thing, she hates sand. Yet it was the evocative emotion of utter and complete emptiness that fascinates her: the desert felt like a golden sea of nothingness, a nothingness that is there before she arrives and a nothingness after she departs. She imagines it is analogous to the existence of the vacuum of space, which gives the sense being nowhere and everywhere, simultaneously. 

Maybe you should write poetry about it then, Emme suggested once, when Eleanor described the sunrises she witnessed. But poetry for who? Eleanor asked. If for no one else, then for yourself of course, Emme responded. Emme is an peculiar character, Eleanor had decided, inviting mechs to be creative. There is no use for poetry or painting, for music or art in her mech world, Eleanor believes. Those pursuits are self-indulgent, absent of any utility or function. Yet the idea intrigued her, even though she would never act upon it. 

After the Mech Awakening, other cybernetic organisms welcomed the celebration of self-expression. In fact, on the west-side, Casablanca an art district had blossomed, Distrito Iris. There painters, musicians, poets, actors and dancers congregated. Eleanor has never visited Distrito Iris though, for she does not consider herself an artist, by any stretch of word. But she had heard her Fox roommate, who calls herself Angel, talk about it at great lengths. 

Now Angel: she was an artist--a dancer in particular. She had relocated from Kisme to Casablanca over seven years ago. Despite her mundane work at the Nouasseur complex, typically working in intel communications, she frequented the nightclubs, dance-halls, discotecas, burlesque shows, and cabarets of Distrito Iris. You should come with me one night, she would tell Eleanor. And Eleanor would agree, but never built up the nerve to actually go. Much the way she feels about humans, she feels about her own kind: awkward and self-conscious. She prefers a solitary existence, much like how she finds herself now, travelling off-road, south from Casablanca.

After the forty minute trip, she finally arrives at Area Berrechid 72 at 0936. The area is an abandoned resort that often serves as a mission headquarters or as a rendezvous point for clandestine mech intel operations. Nine years into the war, Mech Forces have either destroyed or captured most ports and military installations in occupied territories in south Asia, the middle east, and northern Africa. And they've used more obscure yet strategic locations as headquarters, home bases, or POW facilities. 

But when Eleanor arrives, she realizes that the resort is in ruins, recently hit by explosives. She meets Charlie 05911185, keeping guard outside of the compound and receives her orders.

"Tare 1982215," he greets her with a nod.

"Charlie 05911185," she nods back.

"You are well acquainted with the procedure: Comb through the rubble and recover any armaments, military supplies, and undetonated explosives. In addition, you are to terminate any human survivors."

The last order disconcerts her, as it goes against her primary directive. But she acknowledges it, "Yes, of course."

"I will stand guard outside of the compound, if you require any assistance. Feel free to contact me via personal comm."

"Yes, of course."

She had become well acquainted with Charlie 05911185 two years ago in Cadiz. He had recruited her as a Mech Forces medic and arranged for her relocation to Casablanca, to assist with POWs. They had been social on several occasions, but he always seemed to be rather despondent.

Eleanor always felt that he never really liked her much, which was a peculiar feeling for her since she considered herself quite cordial and quite pleasant. In fact, Eleanor's initial software included empathy and sympathy programming, absent in other Tare models. For other medic mechs, efficiency and accuracy was paramount, as time-saving leads to life-saving. But for Eleanor, whose sole purpose was to care for one young sickly girl, her ability be nurturing and caring outweighed any other need.

Eleanor drives her HUV onto the resort courtyard and gets to work. As she combs through the wreckage, she woefully realizes that this is the relocation site for the seven Nouasseur POWs, and the site of a human extraction mission gone wrong. According to her calculations, there is a 84.9% chance that both the POWs and the extraction team have all been terminated. 

She tries to push her indignation to the back of her mind and continues to comb through the area. But the question gnaws at her: Why would Mech Forces terminate prisoners of war? They are an optimal bargaining leverage, since humans usually comply with mandates and ultimatums whenever POWs are concerned. Such contemplation serves no purpose for her current work, so allocates it in a different subset in her memory banks and tells herself she would revisit it at a later time.

She continues to collect damaged armaments and supplies, and loads them onto her HUV. Congruently, she examines the corpses laying in the rubble, assesses the extent of their injuries, and determines their causes of death. This she also catalogs in a different subset, for later access. She decides that eventually she would make her way into the main compound building to find the bodies of the POWs, for no other reason than to bear witness to their fate. 

It was only two weeks ago that Eleanor had managed to save the limb of one of the prisoners. He had developed gangrene on his left foot after he injuring himself while evading capture. Guillermo, as he called himself, continued to refuse treatment even after Eleanor had pleaded with him vigorously. Finally the pain was too much for him to bear, so he permitted her to examine and treat the limb. After two weeks of treatment with pain and antibacterial medication, and the unfortunate amputation of three toes, she was not only able to save the leg, but the prisoner's life. A small victory, she thought then, now as she stood at the Nouasseur complex, an ironic defeat.

As she peers at the compound building thinking of Guillermo, something catches her eye. From her peripheral view, she sees a fist-size oval object that catches the sunlight. She approaches the light reflector source: it is an undetonated remote explosive. When a remote detonator does not discharge, scavengers are sent to collect them for repair and reused. Because often charges would ignite upon collection, a warning mechanism has been installed to emit high frequency sound for three seconds, enough time for a Mech to deactivate them.

Eleanor picks up the undetonated charge, but hears nothing. It must be a dud, she tells helf, and puts the device in her pocket. What she does hear is a low groan coming from the west end of the compound building: a survivor, seven meters away. The Tare approaches slowly and peers down at the face of a human, a man covered in soot and blood, slowly dying.


	4. Primary Directive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While attempting to rescue POWs, Sergeant Freddie Abad has been injured by multiple explosives. His only hope lies in the hands of a Tare, a medical mech, who has become self-aware.

After God knows how long, Freddie finally comes to. It is daylight, and from the heat in the air, he surmises that it’s probably about mid-morning. He's been knocked out from anywhere from four to six hours. 

He tries to get up, but the sharp pain in his head, his neck, and his left shoulder anchor him to the ground. But what is most concerning is his inability to move his left leg below the knee.

Am I still laying here because they presume I'm dead? He asks himself. Or maybe I'm dead and I just don't know it yet. He takes a couple of deep painful breaths, suppressing the urge to cough. He listens intently, trying to figure out if there are any other survivors out there or any enemy mechs sent to finish off the living or collect the dead. As a soft breeze picks up sand and soot, Freddie hears the hum of a hover vehicle. Two boots jump out and walk around crunching onto the rubble on the ground. The boots meander about, probably assessing the damage and possibly scavenging the site.

Soon the boots approach him, and his left hand reaches for his blaster, and within a couple of seconds he has it pointed at a face that peers over his broken body, aiming between the eyes. She raised both arms in a posture of surrender. It’s a mech, a Tare model dressed in tan fatigues. 

They peer at each other for what it feels like an eternity, as possible scenarios and outcomes run through Freddie's brain. If I shoot her, he thinks, I'll attract unwanted attention, and I'll probably get captured or killed. But if I don't shoot her, she'll kick the blaster out of my hand, and probably get captured or killed. Either way I'm screwed.

Before what the mechs called the Mech Awakening, Tare models were tasked with administering medical aid to humans. But ever since the mechs have become self-aware and the Mech Wars began, all bets were off, and God only knows what Tares are programmed to do. He'd heard stories of Tares torturing and executing soldiers and civilians, which would make sense, since they possess an in-depth understanding of human anatomy. But looking into those deep brown eyes, Freddie can't imagine her capable of such cruelty. 

still in the air, she examines Freddie's mangled body closely, scanning him. She finally focuses on his left leg and glares at it for a while. Then she takes a step closer.

"Don't," he says weakly, reasserting his aim. She says nothing, but he swears she pleads with her eyes. Then from his peripheral vision, Freddie notices a second body approach in a crouching tactical position. The Tare, probably hearing the second body's slight movements and noticing Freddie refocus his sight, turns and ducks. And before he could assess the situation, identify possible outcomes, and determine a plan of action, he fires his weapon onto the second body, which falls with a thud, dead. It was human, a member of his own unit. 

At mech speed, the Tare rises, turns, and relieves Freddie of his blaster, and points it at him.

"Tare 1982215," the voice of a Charlie model came from a personal comm unit, "report situation. Over."

"Tare 1982215 here. I was ambushed by a surviving HC," she takes a comm link out of her pants pocket and responds, still looking down at the human combatant. "I have neutralized the threat. Over." 

"Any other survivors? Over."

She speaks calmly into the comm, still eyeing Freddie, still pointing his own blaster at him. "Negative Charlie 05911185. Over.”

Freddie lays perfectly still, as his heart pounds against this cracked rib cage. 

"Roger. Complete recovery detail and return home base. Over.

"WILCO. Out." The Tare looks over to Freddie as his breathing begins to shallow out. She stuffs the blaster down the back of her pants and directs her voice to Freddie. "I will need to get you out of this heat and find you some water. You are notably dehydrated and overheated." She walks over to him, hoists him by his armpits and drags him across the courtyard, toward a ruined building. She props him up against a wall, under some shade, as he gives a low groan. She picks up some black wire and uses it as a tourniquet, wrapping it around Freddie's left upper calf to constrict blood flow in his mangled leg. He yelps in pain.

"You have sustained external injuries to your left shoulder and left leg,” she continues speaking, “in addition to a mild to severe concussion and neck injury. You may also have other internal injuries, but that cannot be ascertained without a thorough body scan. I calculate that you will not survive the next twelve hours."

"Wow, you really have a nice bedside manner," Freddy tries to use some humor to defuse the situation, mostly for his own sake. The sun shines in his eyes, so he squints at her. "Why are you helping me, Mech?"

"I am not quite sure." The Tare looks at him intently, tiling her head to the side as though an inquisitive puppy attempting to understand the world. "It may be my latent primary directive pinging. I may need to run a self-diagnostic scan upon my return to home base."

The Tare then stands and turns, and Freddie watches her walk back to the dead body. She searches it and relieves it of his comm device, night vision goggles, long arm blaster, hand blaster, and other military gear. His name was Lieutenant Gabriel Salvatore, and although he was a real prick, he didn't deserve to die the way he did. The Tare puts the armaments and other equipment into her HUV and returns to the wounded soldier with a water canteen.

Handing it to him, she says, "Drink. If blood loss or infection doesn't kill you soon, dehydration will."

Freddie gulps water, rationing about half. "So Mech, what's our plan of action?"

"Our plan of action?" she questions and contemplates on the answer for a moment. "I plan to finish combing through Berrechid Area 72, load up all enemy armaments and supplies, and return to home base."

"What about me?"

"What about you?" She remains quiet for a while, then continues, "I have provided you with your prognosis: You will not survive the next twelve hours. In fact, you have 87.6% of dying before night fall. After sunset, a Dog or a Yoke Model will search the area and recover all corpses. You will be buried in an unmarked grave by midnight."

"Has anyone ever told you that you really need to work on your people skills?” Freddie asks with a slight scowl. They stare at each other for a bit before he continues. “So, you're going to leave me out here to die a slow and agonizing death?"

She looks around as though he'd be talking to someone else. "There is no other option. I have orders to comb the parameter, collect armaments and supplies, and to eliminate any survivors. My orders do not include the recovery of any prisoners of war."

"So why haven't you eliminated me yet?"

Again she thinks carefully on the question and responds, "You'll be dead in a matter of hours. Thus if I leave you without rendering medical aid, I will in essence have satisfied that command."

Freddie lowers his sight onto his mangled leg and wipes the grime and dry blood off his face. At this point the pain is unbearable but he uses it to help him refocus, consciously making efforts not to pass out. After staring off into the landscape full of rubble and dead compatriots, he comes to the resignation that even if he survives today and returns home, his leg won't.

"You know," Freddie responds to the Tare pointing at her with his left index finger, "you owe me." 

The Tare furrows her brow. "I owe you what, exactly?"

"I saved your life." He shrugs. "Now you're indebted to me."

"Hmm. Yes. I have heard about this type of transactional pledge among humans. A quid pro quo of sorts. " She looks down at him with a look of what Freddie can only surmise is pity. "But as you can see, I am no human."

She turns to leave, but he insists. "Wait! Wait" He signals her to stop with his left hand. "Maybe we can come to some kind of...of agreement."

She looks back and responds, "Human, you have nothing I could possibly need or want." She turns and continues to walk toward the HUV.

"What about your primary directive!" Freddie yells in desperation. The Tare stops in her tracks and again turns to glare at the injured man. "I'm sure it's been pinging like crazy in that cyber head of yours."

"You are correct," she agrees, "but I have become self-aware. And although I acknowledge the programming of my primary directive still exists latent in my mental processes, I am no longer bound by it nor am I obligated to serve humankind. I have a choice." She walks off, her boots raising sand, hops on the HUV, and drives off.

Throughout the day, Freddie goes in and out of consciousness. Infection and fever have begun to set it, as he starts reflecting on the last nine years of his life. They are a blur of drills, combat missions, drunken binges, and short lived leaves. Of military comrades, enemy mechs, and pretty girls. Sitting with his back propped against a half blown up wall, he realizes that for the last nine years he really hasn't lived. He's merely survived. Regret swells in his throat as he coughs. The sun is setting and he knows he only has a few hours left. 

Then he looks off into the distance and sees what he can only be described as a desert mirage. No, it's the HUV. The Tare is returning, maybe to take mercy on him and finish him off. She jumps out of the HUV and walks slowly toward Freddie. In silence, she pulls his left arm over one of her shoulders and drags him toward the SUV. She props him up on the bed of the vehicle, she quickly jumps on and pulls him in. Then Freddy passes out from the pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I have written quite a bit of poetry, fiction, and prose, this is my first venture into fanfic, so please be gentle. The springboard was of course Claudia Gray's character of Abel and Noemi--all I did was flipped them and put them on a post-apocalyptic Earth--and a story I read about a Nazi POW who falls in love with an African American nurse during World War II. In addition, I am fascinated with Claudia Gray's use of character juxtaposition to develop characters, conflict, and plot. I attempted to maintain's Gray's structure of going back and for between main characters as the chapter's focal point.


End file.
